The Meaning of Sleep
by Chairman-Meowith
Summary: Sherlock is running on empty and the case he thought he solved isn't going at all the way he'd planned. Sherlock can never seem to sleep when he's working on a case and this one's lasted four days so far. No slash, just a fluffy drabble that's been bouncing around my head.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was sitting at the desk pieces of paper scattered about him. For the last hour he's been scribbling on sheets of paper, diverse in weight and texture, switching pens about every ten minutes. The pens were all blue but other than this, completely dissimilar. John had slumped in his armchair, mostly asleep and watching the detective through half closed eyes. John hadn't slept much in the last four days, Sherlock demanding his full attention on the case. Sherlock himself hadn't slept at all. John sighed sleepily, he'll never understand how the detective did it. John's head jerked up as a voice startled him out of his dream like state.

"Might as well go to sleep John. This will take several hours." And so it was, that when John emerged from his bedroom the next morning, Sherlock was still there, scratching away at the paper, the pile of pens thinned to just a few.

"Morning," John greeted him cheerfully. Sherlock didn't look up, just continued working at his experiment. He trundled into the kitchen still rubbing sleep from his eyes and made the coffee as he hummed quietly to himself. The machine beeped and John stretched luxuriously before pouring a cup for himself and another for Sherlock. The morning was bright and lovely through the window and John smiled at it, he felt much better for his lengthy sleep. It'd been far too long since he'd slept properly. John spooned sugar into Sherlock's tall mug and carried it to the consulting detective. "Drink that, it might help you act like an actual human," And coffee was one of the things that Sherlock really did seem to enjoy so John hoped that maybe, despite the tiredness, Sherlock would drink it and manage to be civil. As the doctor was handing over the cup, Sherlock leapt from his chair and shouted, sending papers and pens flying in every direction and accidentally hitting the hot coffee from John's hand. "What the bloody Hell was that?" John demanded crossly, trying not to curse. The coffee had scalded one of his hands and stained his jumper.

"I've got it John, don't you see? I have it!" Sherlock was still shouting at top volume. He brandished a paper wildly, then seemed to realize he had dropped the pen. Sherlock's face fell as he realized that half his proof was missing. He dropped to a crouch, scanning the floor for his prize.

"Sherlock, what is going on?" John touched his forehead with the hand that had been holding Sherlock's coffee.

"It was the brother John! It's obvious, right in front of our noses, look at the stationary!

"Stop shouting at me!" John bellowed back, fighting his rising ire. "It is far too early for that. Have you solved the case?"He took the first sip of his coffee, instantly feeling just slightly better.

"Of course I've solved it don't be absurd. It was the brother, he murdered the fiance because he liked his cocaine a little too much, got a little overzealous, bought more cocaine than he could afford. It was drugs John. Look at the paper." Sherlock's tone suggested that only an idiot would fail to understand the significance of the rough paper. Resulting in John feeling a little stupid and very irritated. "That's great Sherlock. I suppose we need to get to The Yard now?" His voice was edged with hard sarcasm. John supposed, quite rightly, that this meant he wouldn't be able to finish his coffee. Sherlock held up the pen.

"Get your coat, we're going out." At least he hadn't shouted it.

John plodded into Scotland Yard, the contentment from his morning shattered by Sherlock's constant chatter in the cab. He was only really talking about the case, but John knew it was one of the few signs that Sherlock had become dangerously sleep deprived. He figured it would take about another half hour before the detective was sleeping peacefully. John assumed that presenting the case would take only a few minutes, add another ten and he should have Sherlock dozing on the couch at the very least. John's silent planning and Sherlock's continued babble, that John had been steadfastly ignoring, were interrupted by the door to Lestrade's office opening, a small woman scurrying out and the Detective Inspector calling for them to enter. The shades were, as usual open, allowing the glorious sunlight to filter into the room and eliminating the need for artificial light. Lestrade himself was sitting with his feet on his desk, his morning coffee in hand and steaming gently. John eyed it enviously. "Solved the case then?" He asked, his voice unusually somber. The case had been very high profile and it had been almost a week since the murder. The higher ups were starting to breathe down his neck and Lestrade was becoming uncomfortable. Sherlock recited what he had told John earlier and repeated in the car, his voice starting to slow and falter slightly. John checked his watch discreetly. It had only been fifteen minutes since the case had been solved, Sherlock seemed to be tiring more quickly than usual.

"I still don't understand how the paper actually solves anything," Lestrade rubbed his cheek. He desperately needed this case to be airtight. It was his neck on the line if the perpetrator walked due to sloppy evidence.

"It solves everything," Sherlock snapped, "That particular paper can only be bought at one store in London, you have location, five blocks from the brother's house. The pen is one I stole from the said house, imported. Also the only possible instrument that could have written the note. Very distinct patterning. Drugs, the paper's distinct thickness and texture allowed it to retain some traces of cocaine. It's obvious! If you require more proof, then you'll have to find additional evidence for me to examine and you seem to be rather noticeably lacking in that respect. The note is the best proof you have."Lestrade had taken his feet off the desk, abandoning all pretence of insouciance.

"Sherlock I need more. I'll go back to the scene and look for more evidence and you keep looking at what you've got. See if you can come up with something more." John thought that Lestrade was being remarkably calm for someone who was being shouted at in his own office. Sherlock rubbed his eyes, another sign.

"No, no you obviously need me at the crime scene. Why don't you review the evidence, it'd probably do as much good," John raised his eyebrows, but Sherlock ignored the look. Lestrade didn't miss the significance of the statement. All three knew that if Sherlock had missed something on the evidence, there was a slim to nonexistent chance that Lestrade would see it.

"Sherlock?" John asked quietly, frowning at his irritable friend. Instead of replying, Sherlock merely glared at him before standing abruptly and sweeping from the room. "Sorry about him he's just-" "Tired," They finished at the same time, sharing small smiles. "Ok well, I guess I'm following him to the crime scene. Will I see you there?" John asked, standing to go. Lestrade nodded and sighed. It looked like another very long day.


	2. Chapter 2

John was at the crime scene in just under twenty minutes. It wasn't even a ten minute drive and walking would have taken him slightly less time, but John had already been trying to hail a cab for almost ten minutes before he realized that. The first cab had come along much sooner, but Sherlock had insisted on taking it for himself, much to John's irritation. Cabs were not easy to find on a Sunday morning. The result was that by the time he had actually arrived at the crime scene he was in rather a foul mood. Sherlock was carefully examining the book case of the deceased fiance, John struggled to remember his name, he thought it might have been Liam. He always made a point of learning the victim's name. It reminded him of how serious this work actually was, kept it real. A human had died and he needed to help put away who ever had done it. "What do you have Sherlock?" He asked briskly, standing well back from where the detective was working.

"I think that maybe the wife..." Sherlock trailed off and John's eyebrows drew together. That was a bad sign. John had rarely seen Sherlock leave a sentence unfinished for long unless he was completely focused on his work. But he wasn't, he was blinking rapidly at John, mouth partially open, seeming to have forgotten that he had been speaking at all. John thought he looked rather like a fish. Sherlock shook his head, as if clearing the exhaustion away and turned back to the book case. Lestrade arrived a few moments later, stepping quietly onto the scene and hanging back with John to let the detective work unmolested, at least for a moment. The DI leaned over to John,

"Has he found _anything _yet?" John shook his head and opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by Sherlock's annoyed shout,

"Shut up, I'm trying to work." John frowned at Sherlock's back and muttered an apology to Greg who was beginning to look a little annoyed himself. "Look Sherlock, it's been a half hour. You've been up for days, maybe you should get some sleep. You're not finding anything anyways." Sherlock actually turned around at this.

"I would find something, I'm sure, if I was actually left to do my work instead of being interrupted every five minutes," This was an exaggeration of course, but Lestrade only sighed and replied with, "I'll be outside if you need me."

"I won't," was the quick response.

John had been watching the detective work for quite some time and he was beginning to grow bored. Generally, he loved watching Sherlock examine crime scenes. It was usually a source of endless fascination for him, but Sherlock had been going over the room for at least an hour and hadn't even been muttering to himself or acting strangely. In fact, he was being almost eerily normal. John had been watching intently and instead of tearing itself apart as usual, the rocket that was Sherlock seemed to be crashing. John could practically see Sherlock's energy draining out of him. Growing wearier with each passing minute. At points John actually wondered if Sherlock had literally fallen asleep on his feet. Of course, a few moments later he would be moving sluggishly around the room again, his gait lacking it's usual bounce. Eventually after what seemed like hours, Sherlock turned heavy lids towards John and smothered a yawn. "It's in the dust," he explained quietly, his deduction lacking his usual boundless enthusiasm. "The murderer was at least six foot three or he couldn't have stood comfortably with his hand on that dresser, which he obviously did. I should inform Lestrade." He began to walk towards the door, stumbling and almost falling.

"No Sherlock, what you should do is go home and get some rest. I will tell Greg about the dust. Go home." John ordered him firmly. Sherlock just shook his head.

"I need to explain the mechanics," He remarked and plodded out the door, leaving John to follow and wonder exactly what else needed explaining so badly that he couldn't wait until tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

Much to Sherlock's annoyance, Lestrade was not in the hall as he'd promised. He'd left a hasty note on the front door.

_Anderson called, forensics had something_

_urgent. Had to leave in a hurry didn't want_

_to disturb you. At The Yard although you_

_won't need me I'm sure._

_~Greg Lestrade_

So it was for the third time that day Sherlock found himself in a cab and desperately hoping that this would be the final piece of evidence. He knew that until the case was solved he wouldn't be able to sleep. He'd lie in bed, thinking about it, turning the evidence over and over in his head until he drove himself insane. It wasn't productive and that time could be better spent on actual work. He paid the cabby as they ground to a halt, just outside of the station. John had been so quiet on the way over, he'd forgotten about him and actually paid himself. John found this worrying, Sherlock never paid the cab drivers. That was his job.

Lestrade was standing next to the water cooler, chatting with Detective Inspector Dimmock when Sherlock found him. Sherlock watched, somewhat amused as Dimmock muttered an excuse and slipped away as soon as he saw the young man's approach. He noticed that Lestrade's face had darkened and he'd folded his arms. He didn't look hopeful, sure that Sherlock hadn't found anything he'd missed from the crime scene photos. Sherlock shuffled towards him, trying to blink the heaviness from his eyes. "I have the...proof," he muttered, Lestrade cocked his head.

"Are you alright,"

"Yes, it was... it was..." Sherlock shook his head again.

"Sherlock maybe you should sit down," Greg suggested, tossing his paper cup.

"I'm-" And before he could even finish the sentence Sherlock had passed out, crumpled to the floor, exhaustion overtaking him at last. Greg rubbed the bridge of his nose, it looked like he'd have to wait for Sherlock to regain consciousness before he knew for sure whether he could close the case.

John, who had just cleared the stairs after having an almost pleasant conversation with Sally, trotted over, guessing what had happened.

"Did he just-?" Lestrade smirked,

"Yeah, right in the middle of telling me he was fine," John snorted.

"Is there somewhere we can put him? We probably shouldn't leave him here." Greg nodded.

"I have a sofa in my office. Take his legs." The two men picked up Sherlock, who only stirred slightly and after much grunting and cursing by both, they managed to dump him on the small sofa, his lanky legs, sticking over the arm rest. Lestrade pulled a thick blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over the lean detective. Sherlock murmured quietly, rolling onto his side and pulling the blanket closer. John receded to the doorway, feeling slightly like he was intruding. After the DI had tucked Sherlock in, he crept to the window and pulled the blinds, blocking the light, making the room dim and solemn. John slipped out of the office, retreated to the lounge and threw himself into one of the comfortable chairs. He looked at his watch. Sherlock had solved the case and collapsed almost two and a half hours later, that had to be a record for him. It wasn't the first time Sherlock had refused to quit and suffered for it and John was sure it wouldn't be the last. He looked up as Lestrade lowered himself into the chair opposite, disturbing his thoughts.

"What did forensics have to say?" He wondered, remembering the reason the DI had left the scene in the first place.

"Apparently they thought it would take me longer to get back from the crime scene than it actually did. Results should be here soon, but they did mention DNA found at the scene." Lestrade looked frustrated and John could hardly blame him. Anderson had fudged this one, but Sherlock hadn't really done any better. After all, he'd fainted before he could even deliver the results of his findings and it was unclear how long he'd be out. He'd basically been in a coma the last time he'd worked this hard, not waking for more than a day after collapsing in the bedroom of a kidnapped child. At least Lestrade had driven them home so John didn't have to try to explain his unconscious friend to a cab driver, which never ended well. John propped his head on his fist and continued to let his mind wander as they waited. He was just beginning to think that he'd really had enough waiting for one day when Lestrade's mobile rang.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," All business. John watched grateful that something was finally happening, listening to the noises of agreement Lestrade was making, saw his face light up just before he clicked off the phone.

"Good news then?" John asked, curiously.

"That was Anderson, forensics confirmed the blood was our suspect's. Absolutely airtight," Lestrade smiled, looking about ten years younger, all the weariness erased from his face.

"That is excellent news, should I go get Sherlock?" Now that Lestrade had enough proof to make a conclusive report, Sherlock's findings could wait until later.

"Let him sleep. You know he's impossible to wake up," John nodded, it was true. After the Sherlock had been out more than five minutes, the most he could usually get was annoyed grumbling.

"Send him back to the flat when he gets up?" John asked, standing and brushing himself off. Lestrade nodded, also rising. He watched as John walked out, then returned to his office, switching on his desk lamp and deciding to do some very quiet paperwork until Sherlock woke up. He didn't want somebody to come in and draw on Sherlock's face with a marker or something while he slept. Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, a small smile tugging at his lips as he saw the tangled mess of limbs and wild hair that was his friend. And because he really couldn't resist, he pulled his mobile from his pocket and snapped a picture. Not to use as blackmail, but to remind him that even the great Sherlock Holmes was a human and when he slept he wasn't a genius any more, or a self proclaimed sociopath, or even a drug addict. He was still the kid stumbling onto crime scenes, stealing his badge, his face exactly as it had been the times when he'd fallen asleep in Lestrade's cruiser. An infinite reminder of the past and the promise of the bright and shining future.


End file.
